Angels Fly Low
by Novoux
Summary: Bleeding to death isn't so bad when Shizuo's already there. Warnings for mentions of violence and recreational drug use. Shizaya if you squint.


The drugs aren't working anymore. The moment they do Izaya knows it's too late after he's played this game for too long.

First thing he knows the moment he's waking up is that it's in another nameless alleyway and the stench of blood is unmistakeable. It's cold-cut steel, hardening under the last puffs of frosty morning breath when the sun's still hiding in another part of the world. And it's how it doesn't have to look, to see what's left when humanity isn't bound by rules if no one's watching. Now is the time where Izaya, self-proclaimed god of the ugly and precious human beings, tries to use his head (his brain's leaking out of the back of his head) to guess if he's going to die this time. Orihara is only a fear-instilling name if there's something to lose, but when humans are blind from rage and jealousy—such petty things—it doesn't matter what the theories are.

It's not going to change that he's going to die. For some reason he doesn't care. Maybe it's the drugs he's taken two-three-four hours ago when Namie's not around and there's generally nothing to do. No plots to hatch, no games to play with his chess board (he set that on fire last time), nothing. And for great minds—brilliant, beautiful and dangerously complex—the mind-numbing boredom is too much to handle alone. Any tasks clogging his email are too easy with ridiculous amounts of money he doesn't need when he's possibly one of the richest in the underground world. It also means plenty of enemies. They're dangerous if they're armed, drunk, and high but the trigger is they've nothing to lose.

In a way, they're kind of like him. Because he's not like them, as he is their god. Well, he's not a pitiful drug addict armed to the teeth with deadly import handguns, (he still loves them, can't be picking favorites) or a binge-drinking alcoholic with a baseball bat. They're really not that smart—compared to him, absolutely not because there is no comparison to the greatest mind of all. But with plenty of pill popping, heavy alcohol, and pent-up rage there's no difference to be made. Somehow he's ended up like this, watching his blood dry on a brick wall like paint and it's slow and boring and generally not his style. He still watches, though; not out of the fact he can't move but it's more like respect in a more complex way he's not thought of before. (Maybe he should get his head bashed in more.) Respecting the nonreligious who drug him, bound and gag him, and then try to find every possible way of making him crack. The attempts, fueled with such vigor are applause-worthy as his body is next to completely numb with every fast-paced throb that echoes like a drop of water falling into a well. Artistically the splattered blood from the walls next to him and leaking from his broken bones are stab wounds are with heartfelt enmity. Emotion at its finest.

The moon's not out. Stars are darkened from the looming clouds above threatening rain and thunderstorms but they're empty and full of holes. He's honestly surprised and amused no one has noticed yet. Sleep is calling him when it's the darker kind he doesn't know for the first time whether or not he's going to wake up. And then he doesn't care. It's completely unlike him but no one's watching anyway—like they would preoccupy themselves with a god when their minds can't even _begin_ to comprehend—so he doesn't act. Can't summon up the energy to tell himself it's the drugs he took and the ones he's been pumped full of. His bloodstream that's slowly thinning out and covering the pavement beneath him is mixed with infection and hes sobering up to the realization he's not going to be able to move again. Besides the fact his legs are broken and his femur is pushing out of his jeans with the edged reminder he's still breathing. Lungs slowly filling with blood, but breathing.

For reasons unknown they drugged him. Kidnapped him off the streets after he'd bumped into one holding a concealed syringe and then he was waking up in an apartment on the sofa with a knife sticking out of his hand. On closer inspection he realized it was one of his own, tucked between bones in a way that if he tried to remove it, it would only get more stuck and ruin the bones of his hand. So they lovingly pulled it from his hand, and then cauterized the wound so he wouldn't bleed to death yet. And for their services they didn't want information. They wanted _nothing._ And he can't deal nothing, so he lets them (tied up and gagged) beat him and takes a couple bullets that are cauterized and scarring him to the point of near paralysis. Should have seen where it was going but at that point he knows it was already too late. He's not the same anymore and hasn't been for months. Eight, to count. Today is the eighth month he's taken morphine to numb the ache in his head beyond the normal dosage and stolen from Shinra to forget that today is the eighth month.

His eyes are starting to leak and he doesn't recall if it's blood until it drops into his cracked lips that it's wet and cold with salt instead of metal. It's the first time in a long while and the only time he'll admit that it's not a reaction. He hasn't been himself and when he's not going to breathe for much longer (he's not done yet with so much to do, though he'll never admit defeat) and it's becoming taxing from the rattling of his lungs to the stunted breaths he's catching and feeling frostbitten in the beginnings of autumn. Like leaves falling he sees all the things he can do drifting away and all the tasks he's supposed to do but he can't help the way they tremor and fall with drops of bitter saltwater into the scorned earth. Pavement conceals the cracks and imperfections and one thing he'd rather have is to at least be in a park or somewhere where he can't feel the warmth of his blood oozing out and have something to hold on to. To remember that tears taste like regret.

He messed up, eight months ago in a game that he broke his own rules to. It's not like he can predict the future even if he is a god, (a pathetic one at that, looking at him now while the rest of humanity can look down on him while he's been reduced to nothing but—) a human is what he is. And it's the stinging, haunting reminder of the ghost he doesn't believe in as he comes to be aware of his own mortality. The way monsters can die just like gods and the theories blend together into forming one mass of godly monsters or monstrous gods. The end product is still the same, though.

It feels like the end.

Weeks turn into months and days into years after what he's done. No more games to play with monsters, the only monster in a human suit that could frustrate him to no end and challenge him all at the same time. No insults, running and chasing cat-and-mouse games with flying government property accentuated with vending machines Izaya has met up close and personal against his head. Nothing more like having Shizu-chan around when he was still alive and able to keep surprising Izaya.

The first glimpse he catches—seems so far away, slowly approaching him when he sees the colors he's never forgotten but a new one that's silvery white. Gold, bleach-blond and black and white of the same suit that's far too familiar to look away from. Bitter drops onto his tongue and the sting produces more from the corners of his eyes, eyelids drooping and water catching on his eyelashes so the rest of the world is blurry.

He blinks several times to force the water away so they don't see him in his weakened state. As shameful as it is there's not much left he can do and the growing numbing sensation only adds to his helplessness. Something makes him think he's going to be scorned but when his fingers twitch, reaching to grasp hold or grab what's coming closer and kneeling at his side. Brown eyes, and a silent mouth in a straight line—the curves are turned up, in a sly smile oh so familiar. Before he can revel in it, the recollection of it all, pain sparks through his muscles and bones, aching as the rest of his blood pools out below him. Lips contort when he's trying to keep himself together, eyes burning and blurry.

One hand cups his face, cold and warm beneath the exterior and he's staring into eyes he's missed in every single drugged daze he's popped pills into just to forget. A thumb wipes away the silent apologies leaking out when Izaya can't speak anymore. For the reason he's been kept alive this long he's wondering now if it's just for this. One word, a testament of sorts and it's all he needs to make sure.

"Shizu-chan..." Cracked, dirty, and broken just like him. One single nod of confirmation he's sure, and the silence for once is appreciated because Izaya's ears are failing him as his brain starts to shut down. The tears he doesn't agree with start slowing down and the thumb brushes against his face and fingers wipe the other side. He's too young to die at twenty-four (twenty-three forever) but so was Shizu-chan. It's fitting how Shizu-chan's the one to pick him up when he's literally in pieces. He always thought he'd have the last laugh and go out with a bang, not hallucinating—the best part is Shizu-chan's real, right here and now—and numb. His lungs tremble and fall.

Shizu-chan's still smiling gently, so unlike him and his eyes are only on Izaya, cradling his head with fingers weaving into blood-matted hair. In the distance he can hear his body dying as his heart slows and his lungs deflate entirely. The last breath he'll ever take comes out in a sigh, eyes drooping and tired.

He's so tired.

The lull of the city charming him into a false sleep and the smile this time is real—heavy and cracking, but enough to show what he means. Brown and gold and untainted, feathery white shuffle so that arms reach underneath him and lift him from the ground. And his head falls against a chest and supported by a shoulder hunching forward—just for him. A name on his lips but his voice fails him now even after he's already said it like a prayer. It's a shame he can't move anymore. But he smiles, lazily and free when Shizuo gives him a soft grin of _it's going to be okay_ which he knows it's not; maybe now at least it can be. There's a whole new meaning to angels fly low.

And when he closes his eyes—for the last time—the ground is no longer beneath him.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading.<em>


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